


Proving Grounds

by anthemXIX



Series: A Wolf & Its Boy [2]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Master Sword (Legend of Zelda), Wolf Link (Legend of Zelda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthemXIX/pseuds/anthemXIX
Summary: The tinkle of tittering koroks, the rich aroma of mossy loam, the plentitude of plants fell away until there was only a hilt and a dirt-smeared blade before him. Magnetized, Link drifted to the ancient, cracked pedestal that housed his long-lost friend. His honored ally. His soul-bound, star-crossed partner.The Master Sword.It sang, beckoning him, craving his touch after one hundred interminable years of waiting.Link clasped the hilt.
Relationships: BotW Link & Wolf Link, Koroks & Link (Legend of Zelda)
Series: A Wolf & Its Boy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020630
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	Proving Grounds

**Author's Note:**

> no need to read part 1 of the series to understand this - but feel free to read it anyway ;) 
> 
> the deku tree's dialogue is taken from the game, with minor modifications

Inside the slumbering Great Deku Tree’s navel, a little forest sprite hummed an ancient, ancestral melody as she tucked some chickaloo tree nuts into a clay pot. Normally, the acorn-shaped pottery was purely decorative, since the Korok Forest’s bountiful resources banished the need for long-term food storage, but Maca was not squirreling away provisions out of necessity. Instead, she was preparing a present for the forest children’s sole visitor: the Chosen Hero of Hyrule.

Mr. Hero, curious and resourceful as he was, always peeked inside the koroks’ pottery when he stopped by. Sized for tiny korok hands, the pots couldn’t hold much—a couple nuts, a single truffle—yet these trivialities caused Mr. Hero to brighten as if he’d uncovered long-lost treasure. Maca cherished this open display of delight, especially considering each time Mr. Hero visited the Korok Forest, he seemed…slighter.

Not slighter in body; in fact, he was constantly growing stronger and hardier. Buffeted by fate’s hefty burdens, it was his spirit that seemed to shrink. Responsibility of an unimaginable magnitude eroded his childlike wonder, sanding down his focus to a somber monomania. The near-silence to which he had retreated spoke of both his single-minded devotion to destiny and his burgeoning misery.

Mindful of the orange and yellow blossoms around her, Maca resituated the pot and propped a new soup ladle against it. Mr. Hero liked to cook, so it was important to have the proper implements available for him…although, Maca recalled with a smile, he did not always use these items for their intended purposes.

Once, Maca witnessed Mr. Hero brandish a ladle like a sword and a pot lid like a shield to enact a skirmish with some of her peers. In the end, Mr. Hero was “slain” with a stick, and he tumbled dramatically to the dirt, only to be swarmed by a tittering gaggle of koroks. He had laughed then, and his laugh was the airy jingle of a windchime. Weightless, breezy, it broke away from him like a precious diamond mined from ore.

Abruptly, the distressed cries of a dozen koroks disrupted Maca’s reverie. She jolted up and froze, tense and alert. The Korok Forest was one of Hyrule’s few remaining sanctuaries. Had monsters finally breached it? 

More pained mewling reached her, and Maca haltingly stepped outside, trying to zero in on the origin of the fracas. It was to her left, close by. Perhaps near the Keo Ruug Shrine?

At that realization, Maca’s disquiet spiraled into frigid terror.

There was only one person with access to the shrines.

Adrenaline spurred her. Weaving through the Deku Tree’s roots, she bounded towards the uproar.

An ever-swelling congregation of koroks thronged the shrine, obscuring her view; Maca elbowed her way through. No one seemed offended at her rudeness, too distracted by whatever spectacle lay before them, and when she arrived at the front of the crowd, she understood why.

Maca had never seen so much blood. She didn’t know Hylians _had_ that much blood.

Mr. Hero squatted next to his wolf friend, resting his chin on the wolf’s slouched shoulders. One arm was slung across its back, Sheikah Slate dangling from that hand. He tangled his other hand in the wolf’s fur, gripping tightly to maintain his balance. Blood rained onto the shrine’s platform from a deep, extended gash on the back of his thigh, flooding the obsidian divots, soaking into the spongy moss sprouting there. The back of his sky-blue tunic was almost completely dyed red, with splits in the fabric revealing several nasty lacerations gummed with half-congealed crimson.

The wolf panted and swayed as multiple trails of blood snaked across its face, collecting on its eyelashes and seeping between its teeth. Its dreadful head wound was visible, but any other injuries were hidden by its thick, dark pelt.

Maca jumped when the Sheikah Slate slipped from Mr. Hero’s hand and clattered onto the stone platform. Neither wolf nor boy reacted. Aside from quivers induced by exhaustion and blood loss, Mr. Hero was motionless, and his vacant gaze was unfixed.

“Mi…Mr. Hero?” Maca whispered. She wanted to move, wanted to help, yet she was locked in place, able only to uselessly gawp. None of the other koroks stepped forward, either, and she wondered if they, too, were debilitated by fear and uncertainty.

She was semi-mollified when Elder Chio materialized next to her, astonishingly composed as he padded through the blood puddles. Gingerly, he set a diminutive hand on the Hylian’s knee. “Mr. Hero? Can you hear me?”

If he could, Mr. Hero gave no indication of it. Instead, he thumped to a seated position, smearing blood across the platform as he reached for the Slate and dragged it to his side. A few jabs to its screen, a flash of blue light, and a floating pink orb appeared above his blood-speckled palm.

Mr. Hero herded the fairy towards the wolf. Obliging, the fairy glided in graceful swirls, sealing the gash on its head. Healing magic depleted, the fairy fluttered away. Mr. Hero produced a second fairy from the Slate, and she whirled around him, closing his wounds. Her iridescent wings gleamed when she flitted for the trees.

Despite his pallor and conspicuous fatigue, Mr. Hero did appear a touch rejuvenated, though his eyes were still faraway, as if he were caught in a daydream. The wolf huffed a relieved sigh as it sank to its haunches. Still, the blood-spattered scene remained gruesome, the onlookers tense. 

“Mr. Hero, I can see you’ve just finished an arduous battle,” Elder Chio said. “Please, come to the Great Deku Tree to rest.”

Steadying himself on the wolf, Mr. Hero managed to haul himself up. The koroks parted to allow him access to the path, and he limped forward, wobbling.

“It’s this way, Mr. Hero.” Walking alongside him, Elder Chio pointed, but he was ignored. “Mr. Hero?”

Maca stared, mystified, as Mr. Hero plodded with purpose down a different path than that denoted by the Elder. Seeming to understand the hero’s destination, the wolf trotted to his side, thumping his leg with its shoulder and chuffing in protest. The korok mob followed at a distance, chattering nervously; their concealed brethren poked their heads out from thickets and tree hollows, inquisitive.

Mr. Hero’s clumsy pilgrimage halted at the heart of the Forest. The koroks’ nattering ballooned, and the wolf whined, and Maca’s confusion was felled by a lance of panic as she pieced together Mr. Hero’s intent. “Mr. Hero, please! You can’t pull the Sword in this condition!”

Elder Chio echoed Maca’s pleas and the wolf keened louder, but Mr. Hero didn’t listen. He mounted the triangular pedestal unsteadily and, for the first time since arriving, focused his gaze: first on the Sword, then the wolf, then the koroks.

He swung back to the Master Sword, the source of months’ worth of agony, and rasped a simple declaration: “It’s time.”

\- - - - -

In the desecrated kingdom, beauty persisted in snatches: Wildflowers threading through fields like stitches. The dusk-time ghostly glimmer of luminous stone deposits on a cliffside. Satori Mountain’s cherry blossom tree, shedding petals that resembled dollops of pink cake frosting.

Some days, Link thought these were emblems of hope, evidence of the land’s undying spirit that refused to succumb to cataclysmic destruction. Some days, they were reminders of loss, mere vestiges of Hyrule’s bygone glory that could never be fully restored. In either regard, though, the beauty did not exist of its own accord but only in tandem with ruin; it was always tinted by tragedy.

Link supposed pure beauty no longer subsisted in his devastated world. He was happy to be proven wrong.

On the way to tame another Divine Beast, Link detoured to explore the Great Hyrule Forest at the base of Death Mountain. He meandered into the haunted and hexed wasteland of the Lost Woods. Spectral trees with sharkish grins formed a maze laced with mist. Eerie echoes of corrupted korok cackles jounced down his spine like mallets on a xylophone. He lost track of how many times the fog wrapped its corpse-cold, filmy fingers around his eyes until he was blind, and when it let go, he and his wolf were back at the brick archway that marked the Woods’ entry. 

The experience was equal measures off-putting and thrilling, a rush that fulfilled his evergreen desire for adventure and convinced him that whatever reward he’d receive for this puzzle’s solution would be priceless.

As it turned out, the prize was more astounding than anything he’d envisioned.

Barricaded behind the Lost Woods, a paradise flourished.

Lush, dense foliage forged a protective canopy, a verdant umbrella that zippered in the permanently temperate weather. Gilded sundrops filtered through and splashed across aged trees. Sturdy trunks, curling branches, and a labyrinth of roots created uncountable nooks and crannies in which elusive forest children played hide-and-seek. In the center of it all loomed a mammoth tree of unbelievable proportions, crowned with pink blossoms.

Teeming with healthy life, the Korok Forest was uncontaminated by the omnipresent Calamity. It was utopic. It was whole and perfect beauty.

Link stood with the wolf, transfixed…until he glimpsed it.

Amidst the cornucopia of vibrant greens, an unnatural lick of indigo commanded attention. _All_ of his attention. It bewitched him.

The tinkle of tittering koroks, the rich aroma of mossy loam, the plentitude of plants fell away until there was only a hilt and a dirt-smeared blade before him. Magnetized, Link drifted to the ancient, cracked pedestal that housed his long-lost friend. His honored ally. His soul-bound, star-crossed partner.

The Master Sword.

It sang, beckoning him, craving his touch after one hundred interminable years of waiting.

Link clasped the hilt.

And he was gone— Free-falling through a flurry of images, a rotating catalogue of Zelda, the Sword, Zelda, the Sword—

Volleyed by gut-wrenching emotions that flip-flopped so fast, he felt nauseated— Fear, anger, confusion, concern, pride, peace— Conviction and courage and fear fear fear—

And overtop it all, Zelda’s pleading voice— _Link, you are our final hope. The fate of Hyrule rests with you._

Link’s entire body recoiled. Reality rushed back, and he was deluged by green, by earthy scents and tinkling bells.

By wood scraping wood.

His eyes sprang to the gargantuan tree; its bark was shifting. Bumps and burls metamorphosed into eyebrows, a nose, a mouth.

Link gawked. The tree yawned.

“Well, well…it’s you,” the tree boomed. “You finally decided to return. Better late than never.”

As the tree scrutinized him, Link struggled to mold his expression into neutrality, scrabbling for composure.

“I can see you have no recollection of me…,” the tree continued. “I have watched over Hyrule since time immemorial. Many have referred to me over the ages as the Great Deku Tree. And _that_ is the Sword that Seals the Darkness, only wielded by the Chosen Knight.”

The Deku Tree paused thoughtfully, aeon-old bark creaking.

“I must warn you to take extreme caution. The Sword stands as a test to anyone who would dare attempt to possess it. As you are now, I cannot say whether you are worthy of it or not. If you sought to free the Sword in any sort of weakened state, you would surely lose your life where you stand.”

A morbid warning, yet the Deku Tree heaved a laugh.

“Best of luck, young one,” it said, sincerity unclear. The tree slipped back into a stupor, not waiting for Link to speak.

The wolf appeared next to him, and Link stroked it, staring at the Deku Tree’s face a long while before finally looking back at the Master Sword.

Slivers of trepidation tainted his previous enthrallment. He knew he had used this weapon a century ago, so he must have earned it somehow. Yet now he had to prove his worth once more? Why? How?

And attempting to wield it might _kill_ him?

Belatedly, Link noticed an assembly of koroks watching him. When they were spotted, they all scattered with mischievous snickers.

Link compelled himself away from the Master Sword, even though it still crooned in tempo with his heartbeat, and wandered towards the cavity in the Deku Tree. He didn’t notice the wolf lingering near the Sword, ears perked as if listening to it speak.

One of the forest children introduced himself as Chio, the korok elder, and led Link inside what was dubbed the Great Deku Tree’s navel. The roof hung just high enough to accommodate Link’s short stature. Chio guided him through the cozy, dimly-lit den and pointed out the cookpot, general shop, mushroom store, and inn, which consisted of a single leaf-and-stick bed.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Hero!” Elder Chio chirped. With a stubby arm, he made a sweeping gesture. “We’ve prepared all this for you!”

The statement shook Link. Very few people recognized him, and far fewer had anticipated his return. Those who had—the King’s ghost, Impa, Purah, Robbie—had assisted him impersonally, equipping him with vital information and items before sending him to his next task. The interactions were brief, and emotions were set aside in favor of concentrating on the plan against Ganon.

That was a fitting welcome, Link thought. The failed hero neither deserved nor expected any rejoicing at his overdue arrival. Hyrule was in shambles because of him. The Royal Family, who he was entrusted to protect, had been killed. Countless innocents had died; his friends, the greatest warriors in their kingdom, had died. Then for a century, he’d slept while Zelda battled the Calamity, the trapped Champions suffered, and those who remained alive toiled in search of solutions. Why should they celebrate him? 

No, he didn’t deserve or expect that. Yet, in all his selfishness, he had hoped for it.

Link crouched and gathered Chio into a hug. The Elder jubilantly cupped his little arms around Link’s middle. The other koroks milling in the navel cheered and hopped over, piling onto Link, jingling bells mingling with giggles.

When the wolf walked through the entryway, it, too, was accosted by the playful forest sprites. After a moment of surprise, the wolf swished its tail and flopped to the floor, allowing its assailants to climb across it and “ooh” at the softness of its pelt. The wolf looked up at Link with what he swore was a toothy smile, and Link laughed, hot tears pearling behind his eyelids. 

\---

For the next week, Link surrendered himself to the leafy Shangri-la, fusing with its ecosystem, enjoying the most blissful days of his second life so far.

He scaled the Deku Tree and played a game of riddles with Walton, the korok he found at the top. Afterwards, he ascended to the Deku Tree’s highest branch, bursting through the pink blossoms and greenery and into outside air and uncloaked blue sky. Fog shrouded the surrounding Lost Woods, shielding it from view, and Death Mountain towered nearby, wreathed with a red volcanic glow.

Link completed the trials for the Lost Woods’ three shrines. He collected acorns, leaves, and Silent Princesses. Purchased arrows and mushrooms. Slept in his personal leaf bed, the wolf nestled on the floor beside him. Experimented with new recipes.

He and the wolf played hide-and-seek with the koroks. Link hunkered down in treetops while the wolf wedged below roots, and the koroks’ joyous laughter upon finding them was infectious.

When Link was otherwise occupied, the wolf sat by the Master Sword, engrossed in silent conversation. Sometimes it pawed or nosed the Blade and glanced down expectantly, hopefully. Nothing ever happened.

Link did not approach the Master Sword again until the eve of their departure from the Forest, when he poised on the pedestal and tried to assuage his apprehension. In spite of the Deku Tree’s warning, he knew he must try to obtain the Sword. It was his destiny.

The wolf stood at his side in silent encouragement. After a deep breath, Link grasped the Sword once more and pulled.

Last time, the Sword cast him into mental purgatory; this time, it was corporeal.

Every muscle in his body constricted and cramped with such ferocity he was nearly rendered immobile. Yet he pulled, and the Sword jerked up an inch.

The stress restrained his breath, and his lungs desperately labored to fill themselves. His heartbeat elevated to a wild stallion gallop. Yet he pulled, and the Sword rose another fraction.

White-hot fire seared his hands and set his entire nervous system alight, made his every fiber crunch under the crackling jaws of lightning. His whole body felt ablaze. Yet he _pulled_ , and the Sword loosened minutely.

Black spots dappled his vision, and his head reeled with vertigo, yet he pulled—and the Sword held fast. It moved no further.

His hands felt so consumed with pain that they went numb, as if the nerves were fried, and he couldn’t determine the tightness of his grasp, but he pulled. It was fruitless, but he pulled, and kept pulling—or he thought he was pulling, but the numbness had seeped up his arms— But he couldn’t stop; he had to keep pulling— But Goddess, his insides _burned_ —

“Enough!”

Link ripped his hands loose and stumbled backwards, knees buckling until he crumpled into a pathetic pile.

“You would have lost your life if you hadn’t released your grip on the Sword,” the Deku Tree rebuked. “Prepare before you try again, for I will not stay your hand next time.”

Wheezing, Link shriveled under the Deku Tree’s stern stare, bowing his head low as he peeled off his leather arm bracers. His palms were raw and red, and his digits, unprotected by the fingerless gloves, were blistered.

Link shuffled around to bury his hands in the shallow pool of water behind the pedestal, the cool liquid stinging even as it brought relief. He was wracked with tremors and felt on the verge of fainting. His head throbbed.

When he raised his hands from the water, the wolf licked them. Link closed his eyes and tried to slow his racing heart.

\---

“Stay safe,” Link whispered, seldom-used vocal cords straining like over-tuned lyre strings. He nuzzled his cheek against the wolf’s in farewell, and the wolf leaned into him. “See you at the stable.”

Link continued hiking up the trail, leaving the wolf at the Maw of Death Mountain. Its flame-blue eyes tracked him until he disappeared, swallowed by the bluffs; then it pattered away, nails clicking on ruddy volcanic rock.

The sweltering clime of Death Mountain precipitated the temporary parting. Conditions there were too dangerous for the wolf, even with fireproof elixirs. Lava-hot rock could burn sensitive paw pads, and overheating was inevitable. Until Link finished his trials on Death Mountain, the wolf roamed free.

Realistically, the volcano was probably too dangerous for Link as well, but he couldn’t dwell on that. The Firebreaker Armor he purchased in Goron City kept him flame-resistant, although it provided little respite from the heat. Nothing seemed to do that. Downing chilly elixirs and carrying frost-infused weapons had negligible effect. Link encouraged himself with the thought that withstanding this unbearable climate would bolster his stamina, both mental and physical.

Altogether, he spent nearly a month at Death Mountain’s peak tussling with fire monsters, conquering shrines, helping the locals, and, finally, taming Vah Rudania with Yunobo and Bludo’s invaluable assistance. In all that time, he never quite acclimated to the environment. He was constantly drenched in sweat, hair and clothing totally plastered to his skin by day’s end. Sometimes his throat clogged with volcanic soot, triggering painful coughing spells.

Day and night were hardly distinguishable, sunshine and moonlight unable to penetrate the lava’s intense brilliance. It was easy to lose his sense of time, and inadvertently working for fourteen hour stretches became a regular occurrence. Without the world’s natural clues to guide him, and with only a boulder for his "bed" at the inn, he found it more difficult than ever to sleep.

During his restless nights, Link found his mind circulating between three primary topics. First was the wolf. Where was it? Was it safe? Was it waiting for him? He knew his friend could fend for itself, and he had every confidence that they would reunite, but worry still needled him.

Second was Daruk. Fuzzy, broken memories of his time with the Goron Champion spontaneously came to Link as he traversed Daruk’s former home. With them came vague feelings—contentment, camaraderie, even mirth—that hinted at a friendship he’d forgotten. He tried to rearrange the nebulous hodgepodge of images and emotions into something comprehensible, but he couldn’t.

Lack of precise recollection did not lessen his grief when he thought of Daruk; if anything, it inflated it. Daruk’s death deprived Link of his friend’s physical presence but Link’s death, in wiping his memory, deprived him of the entire friendship. Every exchange between them that had contributed to Link’s identity was lost, perhaps forever. Grief of that scale was hard to wrangle.

The third recurring topic of Link’s thoughts was the Master Sword.

What would classify him as worthy of the sanctified Sword?

The Deku Tree spoke of his “weakened state,” so he knew he must augment his abilities as a warrior. Apparently, he once was an unrivaled swordsman and archer, earning the honorable position as the princess’ personal guard through his merit, but that version of Link died one hundred years ago. He doubted he could ever reclaim those proficiencies. Even if he could resurrect his lapsed knowledge, his body and mind were irreversibly altered by his death and his current journey. 

But surely, worthiness of the hero’s title required more than excellence in combat. What characteristics did he have to hone in order to prove himself? Fortitude, of course. Perseverance. Loyalty. Dedication to his cause.

What demonstration of these qualities and his combat skills would satisfy the Sword? Or was it the Goddess he was trying to please? Was it She who disallowed him to free it? How did he free it in his past life?

Link wasn’t at all sure what he needed to do to be worthy of the Sword, but he was nonetheless fully determined to do it.

\---

When at last Link could leave the grueling grind of Death Mountain behind, he descended to the volcano’s foothills, buying a bed at the stable there. Stargazing by Lake Cephla, he shivered in the cool breeze, his lungs working to recalibrate to clean, breathable air. He waded into the frigid waters, washing weeks of sweat and grime and ash away, and donned his Champion’s tunic once more. After twelve uninterrupted, dreamless hours of sleep on the stable’s thin mattress, he ambled outside and smiled at the wolf waiting patiently there.

For two weeks, the duo trekked their way through the Eldin Mountains, slaying monsters and saving strangers, and then, at last, they circled back to the Korok Forest.

Once again, the paradise enchanted them both, enrobing them in ethereal beauty.

It was time for a rest. With flowers from his Slate and freshly-plucked Silent Princesses, Link plaited crowns for delighted koroks, for his wolf, and for himself. He climbed trees and played tag and smiled. Forest children mounted the wolf like a steed, wildly giggling as they zigzagged through the trees. Link sampled recipes that needed hours to prepare, and he napped in speckles of sunlight, the wolf acting as his pillow. It was a few days of well-deserved reprieve and joy.

Yet it had to end. One morning, Link knelt on the Master Sword’s podium in a prayerful posture, eyes closed and hands folded. He meditated. He made his mind pliant, allowed the Sword to tug and jostle it like a marionette. The Sword’s sonorous hymns permeated him, saturated him.

The Blade wanted him. It waited for him.

In his six weeks of trials, had he proven himself worthy?

Link’s second attempt to pull the Sword was no less painful and no more fruitful. In one moment, he felt the excruciating lightning bolts crackling along his nerves, felt his chest heaving and constricting; then he was on his back, opening his eyes to the fading form of Mipha hovering over him like an angel.

Cool water soaked into his trousers, and something warm and sturdy propped him up. He had toppled off the pedestal, and his faithful wolf, whining now, was there to cushion his fall. As Link regained his bearings, waiting for his pain and exhaustion to fully recede, he studied the new callouses on his fingers, the charred smudges on his gloved palms.

Before the pair disembarked, the wolf took a private moment for its own meditation on the Master Sword’s pedestal. Silent, it listened.

\---

Listlessly, Link prodded the declining campfire with a stick, upsetting the ashes. He looked past the embers and across the vast Irch Plain to the silhouettes of spires. Hyrule Castle, ringed by purple magic, stood imposing.

In the darkness, Link squinted at his hand. The fire’s muted glow contoured his faded blisters. 

Why couldn’t he draw the Sword? Why wasn’t he worthy? If he was Hylia’s Chosen Knight, didn’t he possess the traits of a hero already? She would not have based her selection on blind guessing.

Was it because he wasn’t as strong as before? He hoped not, because he would never measure up to his previous capabilities.

Maybe that was the problem. He’d been deemed worthy a century ago, but he had failed. Maybe this wasn’t a matter of re-establishing his worth; maybe he simply would never be worthy again. Maybe, in dying, he forfeited his right to the Blade.

But why would it call for him if he wasn’t worthy? Maybe it wasn’t calling for him after all, he thought, but for the soldier who died a century ago and would never resurface. Maybe it wasn’t even calling out, and instead taunted and debased the person who brought shame to it and to the hero’s title.

Link tossed his singed stick into the fire and dumped dirt atop it to snuff the remaining flames. Next to him, the wolf was curled up, tip of its tail brushing its nose as it slept. Tugging his Hylian Hood over his head to stave off the night’s nip, Link reclined on the grass and watched the Calamity’s tendrils swirl around the Castle.

\---

Through plains, hills, and bogs Link and the wolf roved. Instead of circumventing distracted enemies, Link initiated battle indiscriminately; moblins, bokoblins, hinoxes, and taluses all fell to his arsenal. Often, he continued traveling well after sunset in the hopes of finding skeleton monsters to fight.

Sometimes, the wolf gave him questioning looks, as if to say, _Aren’t we stopping for the night yet? Are we really going to charge this encampment?_ Yet it always followed his lead.

Link alternated weapons constantly, improving his skills in each. He tried more and more complicated techniques and experimented with new battle strategies. He pushed through exhaustion and injury with unflagging vigor.

And his efforts were rewarded. He could feel his muscles building, his endurance increasing, and his senses attuning more acutely to his enemies’ actions. His own motions tightened up, morphing into the controlled movements of a soldier. His self-confidence spiked.

The evidence of his improvement as a warrior was undeniable, and Link glistened with pride, more assured than ever that he would not foil his second chance at saving Hyrule.

When he next reentered the Korok Forest, Link spent minimal time resting, instead opting to meditate by the Master Sword. Each note of its melody vibrated inside him, sinking in to all his empty spaces. When his mind was clear of everything except the Sword’s summons, Link stood and took hold of the purple-blue hilt once more.

This time, he awoke in an uncomfortable face-down pose, folded in on himself like a discarded ragdoll. The wolf stood inches from him, intent eyes searching his.

He hadn’t done it. Once again, the Sword had beckoned and then resisted. Set the bait and sprang the trap.

Was this a game? Did the Higher Powers enjoy watching him try and fail again and again? Were they even on his side?

Link shoved himself to his hands and knees, face contorting. He could picture Zelda in virginal robes, waist-deep in a spring, begging the Goddess to unlock her powers. She had devoted her life to praying and pleading, sacrificing her own desires and seeking every avenue to please the Goddess—and to what end? What did she gain, aside from tears and suffering and self-disgust? Why was she denied access to the power that already flowed in her veins, that destiny had granted her at birth?

Why was _he_ denied the blade the Goddess had _chosen_ him to wield?

Why? Why? _Why?_

Link slammed his fists down onto the stone, and when that brought him no relief, he tried it again, harder. With a guttural cry, he slammed down again and again, rattling his bones and scraping his hands, until the wolf clamped onto his tunic and forcefully tugged, jerking him off-balance. Grunting, he pushed it away, but hauled himself up. He ignored the koroks peeking through leaves, watching him as he stumbled towards the Deku Tree’s navel with the wolf close behind. 

\---

Distinct memories of the Master Sword had yet to surface, but, as with Daruk and Mipha, there were snippets. He remembered presenting the Sword to the King when he first drew it. Remembered the heft, both real and imagined, of the scabbard perpetually strapped on his back. An unearthly blue glow emanating from the blade. Zelda questioning his ability to wield it. Questioning his own ability to wield it.

These snippets cycled through his mind as he continued to wander Hyrule, probing new self-doubts. Why were most of his memories connected to his destiny and the events directly preceding the Calamity? Didn’t his life outside of that matter at all? Did his value as a person derive solely from his title?

Gradually, the doubts began to project outwards, colored by a building animus towards the fate that seemed to hold him hostage and renounce his personhood, towards the gods that had constructed this fate.

But thoughts like that were malignant. It was not his place to second-guess divine design, nor was it practical to risk sabotaging his own mission by indulging cynicism. Whatever the case, he was given this destiny, and he intended to see it through. A kingdom was worth more than his pitiful life. 

Maybe this was his retribution for failing one hundred years prior: getting stripped of everything except his obligations. He was gifted the miracle of a second shot, and he had no right to complain about the conditions that came with it.

(Still, quiet resentment and sorrow had burrowed into Link’s heart, and there, forever, they would roost.)

\---

Enlivened by inviting lanternlight and jovial conversation, Serenne Stable had been an enticing sight; a good night’s sleep on an actual mattress sounded like the ideal way to cap off a day of monster-hunting, especially since Link and the wolf were decently battered after clearing the encampments at the Maritta Exchange Ruins.

But Link had resisted, forcing himself to trudge onwards through the Salari and Rowan Plains. He felt guilty when the wolf's ears sagged sadly as they passed the stable, but he had to keep pushing his limits until he could regain the Master Sword. Until he could liberate Zelda. Until Hyrule was safe.

Besides, physical exhaustion distracted him from poisonous qualms and questions.

Now, though, Link regretted skipping the stable, cursing his cockiness as he ducked away from a stalmoblin’s spear and launched another bomb arrow at the stalnox’s shining eye. The explosion’s dazzling light splintered through the nighttime dark, and the stalnox wailed as its yellow-green eyeball tumbled into the grass, bumping and rolling. Link nailed the eye with another bomb arrow before the stalmoblin’s spear tore through his back, adding more gashes to his growing collection.

Link didn’t falter as he swapped his bow for a claymore. The slow, two-handed weapon was not optimal against powerful and surprisingly quick stalmoblins, but he had no chance to summon another weapon from his Slate. The stal pierced his side before he thwacked it across the head, sending its skull careening. Link scampered after it as the headless skeleton staggered behind him, and he cleaved the skull with his claymore. Nearby, the wolf tackled a second stalmoblin to the ground, severing the neck with its teeth and chewing the skull down to the marrow.

At last, after slaying endless octoroks and stal creatures and keese flocks, the stalnox was the only opponent left standing. Link trained his attention back on the cyclops, whose wayward eyeball was back in its socket, but he had hardly dispatched another arrow when he saw a fresh trio of stalmoblins clawing out of the dirt, moonbeams bouncing off their mud-streaked bones.

Instantly, the moblins encircled the wolf. It body-slammed one and pinned it down, but the stal’s brethren swiftly intervened by smashing its spiked club into the wolf’s forehead. Yelping, the canine lurched aside and collapsed.

Link lunged at the offending monster, knocking its skull off. The stal felled by the wolf lugged itself up, clasping its own club; the third attempted to stab Link with its spear; and the ground rumbled as the stalnox plodded towards them, brandishing an uprooted tree.

Injured and exhausted, Link was outnumbered and overwhelmed. He threw himself against the wolf, which had struggled to its feet, and whipped out his Slate. With an angry howl, the spear-wielding stal slashed a deep, massive groove into Link’s thigh as he tapped on the Keo Ruug Shrine. The moblin went for a second strike, but hit only empty air as wolf and boy disappeared in a cocoon of blue light.

Both were hot and sticky with blood when they materialized on the platform of the Korok Forest’s shrine. Adrenaline ebbing, Link now felt his deep-rooted exhaustion, the ache of his overworked muscles, and the pain from his many wounds full-force. Hurt as it was, the wolf managed to support his weight, and Link felt renewed guilt at how much he burdened his friend.

Several koroks shrieked and crowded around the shrine, but their terrified cries were muffled by another sound that hit Link like a tidal wave.

The Master Sword’s serenade had risen to a roar, menacing yet still mellifluous. Deific, the eerie tune resonated with power that demanded both devotion and fear. The chords curled around his bones, compelling him towards the pedestal. The song held whispered promises that curdled in his ears, promises of dominance and loyalty and love.

Realizing he had dropped his Slate, Link slumped down and tugged it towards him, foggy and preoccupied as he flicked through his inventory. He brought out two fairies, one for himself and one for the wolf, before dragging himself upright. He stepped around the Elder and through the congregation of koroks, hardly registering their presence as he allowed the Sword to lure him.

It wasn’t his partner, Link thought then. He was shackled to the Blade. He was as much a tool of the Sword as it was a tool for him. And like a beaten dog, he would pathetically grovel before it, submitting to its will.

Pulling it now would not be a testament to Link’s strength so much as an indulgence granted by supposedly-benevolent gods that had judged him worthy by their unknowable, arbitrary standards. What exactly had changed in the interval between this and Link’s last visit was unclear. Regardless, he knew with certainty that the pivotal moment had arrived, and no matter his condition, he would obey the call of the Goddess and of the Master Sword.

The koroks spoke to him, but their words were like the indistinct buzzing of gnats in his ears, dominated by the Blade’s insistent crooning. The wolf butted against him, but he scarcely felt it. It wasn’t until he reached the pedestal that he untangled himself from the song’s ensnarement long enough to fully see the Sword in front of him. He glanced at the wolf, whose blood-stained head drooped, its tail tucked miserably between its haunches. Behind it, the koroks fidgeted, shouting out discordant protestations.

He turned back to the Sword. In this moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

“It’s time,” he stated, and he grasped the hilt.

\- - - - -

Maca blanched as Mr. Hero grabbed the Sword. She had watched him agonize over the Sacred Sword for months, flirting with death in his attempts to extricate it. She didn’t think she could take seeing him suffer more.

“Mr. Hero!” she called out as she lurched forward. But he was lost already, eyes squeezed shut, knuckles ghost-white, limbs shaking from strain. Though his wounds were closed, blood still slithered off his skin, dotting the stones underfoot.

At the pedestal’s base, the wolf stood with flat ears and tucked tail, the corners of its mouth stretched into something like a grimace. It fastened its intense gaze on Maca, and she froze. Its message was clear: _It hurts, but we cannot interfere._

Mr. Hero grunted as the Sword edged upwards.

The Forest was silent, bereft even of bird- or insect-song as every creature concentrated on the hero.

Moonbeams broke through the treetop canopy and enveloped him, setting his face aglow with saintly, silver light.

The chinked blade scraped against its prison as it was pulled up and up.

And with a final, arcing yank, the Master Sword was free.

Breathing heavily, Link raised the Sword, garlanded by sparkles of starlight, to the heavens.

The koroks erupted into triumphant cheers, jocundly jostling each other in celebration—all save Maca and Elder Chio. The wolf retained its posture as it watched Link lower the Sword, grip in one hand and blade lain flat in the other open palm.

Rousing itself, the Deku Tree intoned some congratulations, yet Maca didn’t process the words. Her attention was glued to Mr. Hero, who stood stony like a pillar, head bowed towards the Sword. And that’s what he was, Maca thought: the sole pillar upholding Hyrule, fortifying the kingdom’s former splendor all on his own.

When the prophesied hero had first returned to the Forest, Maca, like the other koroks, regarded him with veneration. He was like a fable in the flesh, a pontiff meriting piety from the believers. But as Maca watched now, she didn’t see a transcendent savior. She saw a boy with trembling hands and a downcast gaze, holding the embodiment of a destiny too burdensome for one person to bear. A lonely boy forever denied his own fulfillment, boxed in by expected self-sacrifice.

Future generations would speak of his deeds with awe. He would become a legend, a myth, consecrated forever in Hyrule’s history like the heroes of eras past. They would remember him as an honorable and noble knight with ironclad courage. But their reverence would be the same as that of her korok kin—detached. Dehumanizing.

No one would remember the anguished boy pounding on the Master Sword’s pedestal until his fists bled. The hours he spent in genuflection before the Sword. The prayers. The flickers of self-doubt. Nor would they remember the frightened boy finding solace in the fur of his faithful wolf, or the gentle boy who weaved flower crowns for the forest children, or the curious boy who marveled at secrets stashed in pots. No one would remember the precious sound of a breezy windchime laugh.

No one would truly remember Link. And that, Maca thought, was nothing to celebrate.


End file.
